


Like a Sword Needs a Sheath

by crookedneighbour



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble, Homoeroticism, M/M, Murder Kink, Red Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 17:56:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14753568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedneighbour/pseuds/crookedneighbour
Summary: Robb fits just right.





	Like a Sword Needs a Sheath

Robb sunk to his knees as Roose pulled out. His pupils were blown in shock, and his pretty Tully eyes had quickly taken on the glaze of the dead. There was a flap of fabric as he bled initially, before his clothes grew soaked and clung to his chest, and the brave foolish boy of a king they had rallied behind bled like what he was, another sad young corpse in the games of highborn men.

This was a much nicer finish to their meal than anything Walder Frey —and despite her charming enthusiasms, Walda— could have provided him. There were certain satisfactions in life men like Walder, or rather other men in general couldn’t understand. Walder had a sense of base pettiness about him, a sore spot over slights of no real significance that had mainly his own behavior as the cause. Ramsay had a sniff of it, but his bastard nature overran any refinement Roose could try to teach him.

Roose ran the flat of his sword alongside his leg, drying it reflexively, his stare still on his former king. The arrows would have killed him if untreated, of course, but every task had a tool and every sword a sheath. Robb had made a very lovely sheath. He’d been unarmored, once Roose initially pressed pass the tight resistance of his ribs his flesh and heart were easy yielding work. Pulled into their lethal embrace, the boy had been helpless when he raised and twisted his sword, the motion sending a spasm Roose could feel through Robb’s whole body.

Roose surveyed the hall, he was alone with the Freys now. Catelyn Stark lay dead, Robb’s bannermen lay dead. Walder Frey still cackled gleefully. Roose’s feet were firm against the ground, his breathing had resumed its normal pace, the weight of his chainmail was distributed across his body, his sword returned to his hip. Lothar put a hand on his shoulder.

“You made swift work of him, eh?” Lothar asked with a laugh.

“You can ask him yourself,” Roose mused. He tired of acting like they had more in common than a convenient marriage. The door’s of the hall creaked open, and three men dragged the remains of Robb’s beast behind him.

The wolf had been filled with arrows, just as Robb had. Roose had hoped to go home with two wolf pelts, a throw to match his newer gloves, and trophy, albeit a private one. He liked to reflect on his hunts, letting the leeches moderate his blood in exchange. It would do him well.

“We had an idea grandfather, I think you’ll like it!” one of the Freys called. Roose did not. The sooner he and Robb were alone, the more at peace he’d be.

Roose rest his hand back on the hilt of his sword, tracing over the musculature of the flayed figure with his thumb as they spoke. He didn’t care for it at all.


End file.
